


Doing Romance

by Tierfal



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Dorks in Love, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:38:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ed struggles mightily with the revered traditions of classical courtship.</p>
<p>[No spoilers!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doing Romance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pax_et_Lux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pax_et_Lux/gifts).



> …oops, I speedfic'd.

fantastic art by [Pax](http://elricestual.tumblr.com/), originally posted [here](http://elricestual.tumblr.com/post/68503776177/i-kind-of-like-the-idea-of-ed-being-a-little)

Ed pauses. He glances sideways at Roy, surreptitiously, through his hair. Roy is just _watching_ him, with hot, half-lidded eyes, because Roy is a bastard piece of shit and also a cheater.

Ed turns the page. His cheeks are burning so bad it’s a wonder the book hasn’t caught fire.

“He… ey,” he says.

Fuck fuck _fuck_ fuckity fuck. Nothing ever sounds right. How do you even talk to someone who’s seen you naked? What can you _say_ to someone who’s licked the sweat off your throat? What sorts of twisty, windy, wiles-y kind of words are you supposed to use?

Ed’s skimmed a couple of Al’s stupid books—because, y’know, _books_ —and grimaced through a few of the radio plays that Al curls up next to the speaker and rattles with delight for. Lovers are supposed to talk all clever. That’s supposed to be part of the excitement—part of the _game_. You’re supposed to play hard to get, and you’re supposed to be sassy and sultry at turns, and you’re supposed to generate so much banter that nobody can tell how you really feel—which somehow is the thing that indicates that you really want to jump into bed with somebody. Ed can’t figure that part out; if he said “You’re a cad and a reprobate” (he can tell tonally that reprobation is not a positive trait and/or activity), “and I shan’t be yours now or ever”… Well, he _wouldn’t_ , because holy shit, who _talks_ like that?, but if he _did_ , he’d fucking _mean_ it. He wouldn’t say shit like that and then turn around and fall into someone’s arms; that’s basically lying, right? Except that Al always makes this little gleeful noise like the fun’s just getting started.

“Yes?” Roy says calmly.

That’s the other thing—yeah, Roy almost had an aneurysm finding out how flexible Ed is against a mattress, but if Ed can’t talk the talk to save his fucking _life_ , how long is Central’s favorite fuckbuddy going to give a crap?

There’s no running from it: Ed completely fails at romance. He is tone-deaf to love songs. When he takes a good, long look at Roy, and his heart starts banging, it doesn’t inspire him to heights of wit and eloquence; it ties his tongue into double-knots, and the fire in the pit of his stomach sends torrents of smoke up to choke the words out of his throat. There’s no template for that. Is it wrong? Maybe the feeling doesn’t mean anything if he can’t think of anything to _say_ about it, but that can’t be right—

“What’s the matter?” Roy asks.

“Nothing,” Ed says, looking very intently at the word _the_. It’s important, is _the_. Important article. Pretty useful to the language. To _the_ language.

Roy shifts closer. The couch creaks softly as his weight moves; the cushion bows towards him so that Ed starts to tilt in towards his shoulder.

See, that’s how it’s _supposed_ to go. All this… double-entendre… implication… shit. You never actually say anything—or if you’re _really_ good, you say the exact opposite of what you mean—and somehow the other person figures out that you’re Doing Romance, so they should just ignore what you’re saying and Do Romance back.

Ed thinks ignoring people is rude.

Why do people _do_ this shit? Well, other than the fact that sex is awesome, which sort of makes it worth it, and… yeah, that’s probably why.

“Really,” Roy says. “What’s wrong? You’ve been skittish all night.”

“I have not,” Ed says. He’s moved on to the word _proportionate_ , which is not quite as versatile as _the_ , but still pretty helpful to know.

“Edward,” Roy says in that low, _too_ low, soft, patient, rumbly voice he has that pierces straight to the base of Ed’s spine and sends a spear of heat right through him. Roy’s nearest hand settles lightly on his thigh. _Fuck_ , the man has nice hands. His fingers are kind of long, but they’re sturdy enough to feel _powerful_ —and they can be so gentle, but they can grip like vises, and when he digs them in you feel trapped and _wanted_ at the same time, and giving in to that is like—

Ed drags his eyes away from the back of Roy’s hand and fixes them on the page of the book again. This time he lands on the word _nimbus_.

Good word, _nimbus_.

Fuck _nimbus_ ; he really wants Roy’s fingers curling into the meat of his ass, twisting themselves into his hair, pinning his wrists to the bed so he can arch and writhe and scream all he wants, but he’ll stay locked in to the overwhelming heat and press and pleasure—

And what the hell does banter have to do with _this_?

“I think,” he says.

Roy is very quiet; how can a person’s gaze be _heavy_? It’s not a tangible thing; it doesn’t have mass; it can’t possibly have _weight_.

“That,” Ed goes on. “Maybe. I should. Read. Upstairs.”

“In the library?” Roy asks, the pinnacle of innocence—the mother _fucker_. He _must_ know; he must _get_ it; he’s a grandmaster at this game, and he’s also a giant _douche_.

“I was thinking,” Ed says, biting the words out around the very distracting ways his whole body is going haywire as Roy’s palm warms his leg, “in… bed… actually. It’s… comfortable. Not that the library’s not comfortable. But it’s. Cozier. Y’know.”

“Are you sure you want to be cozy?” Roy asks.

Ed looks at him like he’s an imbecile. Scratch that, he _is_ an imbecile; Ed’s just looking at him and acknowledging the facts.

“You look like you’re enjoying that book very much,” Roy says, leaning in to peer at it over Ed’s shoulder, which puts his purring voice and damp mouth _extremely_ close to Ed’s ear. “You’ve been looking at that particular page for two full minutes; it must be fascinating. Surely if you got too cozy, you’d risk falling asleep.”

Ed is starting to sweat now. What if Roy’s so used to him being an awkward, incompetent little nerd ( _no_ , no, no; an awkward, incompetent, _perfectly normal-sized_ nerd) that he actually doesn’t realize that Ed’s trying really hard to play the stupid game and just happens to _suck_ at it?

This whole relationship thing is such a crock of shit. People should just be able to say “I like you; let’s fuck” and be done with it.

Goddamnitalltohell _fuck_.

“You should come with me,” Ed says. “To the bed, I mean. To make sure I don’t fall asleep. I mean, I probably wouldn’t, but… just to make sure. Y’know.”

Ed has been told by twelve different people on twelve individual occasions that he’s the least subtle human being they’ve ever met. Surely that has to count for _something_.

“Are you sure?” Roy asks. His mouth brushes the shell of Ed’s ear; he breathes out, and Ed’s shoulders go _tight_. “I would hate to get in the way of such a delicious foray into literatu—”

The core of Ed’s body is taut like a bowstring, and the low tones of Roy’s voice resonating against his very _skin_ finally make him fucking _snap_.

He’s got a fistful of Roy’s collar in the metal hand and a mouthful of Roy’s bottom lip before he’s really had time to blink. He bites down, not exactly softly, and then pushes Roy away just far enough to glare into his gleaming eyes.

“Fucking fuck me,” he says. “For fuck’s _sake_.”

Roy’s grin is positively _evil_. No one in their right mind will ever allow this man to lead _any_ country, let alone their _own_. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

“I’m going to fucking eviscerate you,” Ed says. “With my bare hands.”

Roy takes the left one and tugs him upright off the couch. “Not until after I’ve fucked you, I hope.”

“Depends how good you make it,” Ed says.

Roy’s got a laugh that’s just for him—or, at least, he thinks so; he’s never heard it when they’re with other people. It’s kind of deep and very rich and just sort of _happy_ , and it zings through Ed’s bloodstream every time.

“Do you have the slightest idea how charming you are?” Roy asks.

“Who’s _slight_?” Ed snarls back.

The just-for-him laugh carries them all the way up the stairs.


End file.
